Voice of Reason
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Sara learns about Michael's headaches and nosebleeds, and after talking to Lincoln she convinces him to do something about it. When trying to get to the bottom of his medical problems, things unfold that no one could predict. Spoilers for s4! CHAPTER 7 UP
1. Chapter 1

**Voice Of Reason  
**_by TeeJay_

_**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows (with involvement of Sucre, Bellick, Mahone, Roland and Agent Self)_

_**Rating:** PG-13_

_**Summary:** Sara learns about Michael's headaches and nosebleeds, and after talking to Lincoln she convinces him to do something about it. Sara and Lincoln have an honest talk about things left unsaid. While trying to get to the bottom of Michael's medical problems, things unfold that no one could predict._

_**Setting:** Season 4, prior to episode 4x07 and continuing from there on_

_**Spoilers:** Pretty much everything up to and including episode 4x06 in the first two chapters, spoilers for all aired season 4 episodes in later chapters_

_**Author's Note:** I started to write this before having seen episode 4x07 (Five The Hard Way) in hopes of my predictions not coming true, but now everything indicates that they're really gonna be this corny and predictable. I mean, come on, lethal brain tumor? Please, that's just way too TV drama. I'm really gonna hate this season if it ends with Michael in mortal peril, being rushed to a hospital with a deadly brain tumor, and by episode 5x01 he's as fine as a young gazelle because they've found some miracle cure that only the FBI has access to. I loved it when this show could still surprise me. However, I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for now._

_You will see when you read this that I took a bit of a different path. I'm no doctor, and even though I work in the pharmaceutical industry, I don't have a lot of medical knowledge. Please go easy on me if I didn't get the medical details right. I just hope I'm not leaning too far out the window with this. If so, feel free to let me know._

_The last sentence of Chapter 1 is a homage to MsGenevieve's latest story. If you've read it, you'll know what I mean. Her Michael/Sara stuff is fantastic, I wish I was this prolific and good at it._

_Please leave me a review if you feel like you have something to say. Every little piece of encouragement or constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. Thanks!_

xxXXxx

**Chapter 1**

It was hard to escape Michael Scofield. Or maybe not so much to escape him but to do anything without his noticing. And she didn't want to either elude or escape him, what she really wanted was a moment alone with his brother.

Sara had been waiting for the right moment all day, but either Michael and Lincoln were in close proximity of each other or they were both off somewhere without her.

Finally, she saw her chance. Agent Self had arrived ten minutes ago he and Michael had wandered off to places and conversations shielded from her. It was obvious that they both needed each other in a twisted sort of way—to accomplish their mutual goal that didn't have quite such a mutual motivation.

She stole a quick glance at Lincoln, who was sitting by himself, hunched over a stack of documents that were lying on the table in front of him. He looked as tired as she felt, and it was less the physical strain than the psychological one that was taking its toll on all of them. The way Lincoln was running his hand over his shaved head only seemed to underline his state of mind.

She approached the table and sat down in the vacant chair to his right. His only acknowledgment of her present was a quick sideways glance at her.

She was silent for a moment, then she cut right to the chase. "Lincoln, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

She looked at him. Did his positive answer belie his willingness to answer her question? It didn't matter now, he was here to talk to her. She asked him, "Is there something going with Michael that I should know about?"

He swiveled his chair slightly in her direction, giving her a look that she had trouble deciphering. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the headaches, the nosebleeds. He's trying to hide it, but he's not doing a good enough job of it."

Lincoln sighed. What was he supposed to tell her? He knew Michael didn't want her to worry. "Sara," he said wearily, "Look, he... he made me promise."

"Promise? Promise what?"

"That I wouldn't tell you."

She thought for a moment. "Technically, you're not telling me. I figured it out on my own, remember?"

"Figured what out?" He looked at her in puzzlement. Did she know more than she let on?

"Oh, I don't know," she said mockingly and lifted her arms in a shrugging gesture. "He's had these headaches for a while now, right? I know he's not rubbing his temples because of occasional tension headaches. I've seen him trying to hide a nosebleed twice. That can't be a coincidence. And you know that I can't ask him about it because he'll just give me that brave smile and tell me that he's okay."

He smiled a grim smile to himself. Maybe he needed to give Sara a little more credit. She knew his brother better than he thought.

She pressed on, "So what's really going on?"

"Look, I'm not sure, okay? He said he's just adjusting to the humid climate."

When he didn't go on, Sara cut in, "But you don't believe that any more than I do, right?"

Lincoln lowered his head and rubbed his skull, the way he did when he was worried or agitated. Then he lifted it again and looked her straight in the eyes. "No, I guess I don't."

Did she have to beg him for more information? After another stretch of silence, she told him, "Lincoln, why do I get the feeling that there's something you're not telling me?"

He drew in a long breath, holding it before he spoke. "When he was 13, he had this... thing. I don't remember what it's called, but it was something about high blood pressure and adrenaline. I think they called it chromo-something."

"Pheochromocytoma?"

"Yeah, I think that's it."

She racked her brain for the little information she might still have stored in it on the condition, but she came up empty.

Lincoln interrupted her train of thought. "He had surgery then, it was a big deal for a while."

She nodded, her thoughts spinning. His voice drew her back to reality once again. "Do you think it's that same thing all over again?"

"I..." She didn't quite know what to tell him. "I don't know. I only know about pheochromocytoma what I learned in med school—and that's a long time ago. But I guess... it could be."

"Can you find out?"

"It's not that easy. You need to run blood tests and other diagnostics." She looked around the warehouse. "I think you know that we don't have the luxury to have him admitted to a hospital right now."

He nodded and muttered a resigned, "Yeah. So now what?"

She ran one hand through her hair. "I don't know. Maybe I can talk him into letting me draw some blood. I could try to pull some strings and get it tested at a lab. I wish I had something here to measure blood pressure."

"There's nothing in the med kit?"

"No, nothing I can use."

"Damn," Lincoln hissed.

"Yeah," Sara sighed in a whisper.

He rubbed his eyebrow. "What if he needs surgery again?"

"Let's not cross that bridge until we come to it, okay?"

He stared into the nothingness of the bleak, non-descript warehouse walls. "Okay."

xxXXxx

It was too much. She couldn't keep her eyes off him, worrying about whether his next gesture, his next flinch was another indication of a headache, waiting for the next time she would detect a spot of crimson above his upper lip. Whenever he caught her staring, she quickly looked away, pretending to be busy with something or other.

This was driving her insane. She couldn't breathe. She needed air. As she left the warehouse, she could feel Michael's eyes burning into the back of her skull from where he was standing with Roland, discussing their next move, their next plan, their next near disaster.

The last light of the setting sun gave the dismal industrial scenery a certain consoling glow that drew her out to the pier. Sitting down on one of the metal boulders, she drew in a long breath and slowly let it out again, watching the orange sun melting into the horizon. She should be sitting here with Michael by her side, her head leaning against his shoulder, and not worrying about losing him. Again.

It was moments like this when she felt lost. Everything inside of her wanted to be with him, but when she was, there was always something that got in the way. For a while, after he had boarded that boat to Panama that she hadn't been able to make, all she wanted was to be with him. It was what had kept her going during the time when Gretchen had held her and LJ hostage.

And now? Things weren't quite so black and white anymore. Every day she found herself looking at a new shade of gray.

"Sara," she heard his soft voice from behind her. He knew better than just to approach and touch her without warning. Her heart briefly stung at the memory of when he had learned this particular lesson, that first night they were reunited after his escape from Sona.

For a split second she wished he wasn't there. She knew it was wrong, but right now she wished they didn't have to have the conversation that she was dreading.

"Sara?" he said again when she didn't react.

"Yeah," she replied, turning her head around to acknowledge him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Of course she was gonna say that. It was their little game. Keeping up pretenses. She was as much not okay as he was.

He came around to face her. "What's wrong?"

She avoided looking at him. "I should be asking _you_ that question."

His brow furrowed, then it dawned on him. "You talked to Linc. He told you, didn't he?"

She looked up at him. "Don't be mad at him, Michael. I know he promised not to tell me. And he didn't come to me, _I_ came to _him_. How long have you had the headaches and nosebleeds?"

"Look, it's no big deal, okay?"

She had never hated his little I'm-okay game more than at this moment. She raised her voice. "Stop lying to yourself. It was a big deal when you had to have surgery!"

"Maybe so, but that was then and this is now."

"And what if now was just as big a deal?"

"Come on, Sara, you know I can't go to a hospital and get checked out now." He gestured at the warehouse behind them, "In the middle of this."

"So you're gonna pretend it's nothing and ignore it until it kills you?"

"You got any other ideas?"

"Let me draw some blood, get it analyzed. Then at least we'll have an idea what we're dealing with."

She looked him straight in the eye, pleading for him to say yes. "An old friend from med school moved to LA to practice pediatric medicine here. She'll get me the material I need and she'll run the bloodwork for us. Please, Michael."

She could see the wheels turning in his head, weighing the risks against the benefits. It was a good sign that he wasn't immediately rejecting the idea. He turned his back to her, rubbing one hand over his head where the stubbles of his hair were getting longer than she had ever seen him wearing before.

Finally, he turned around again to face her. "Okay," he simply said.

"Okay," she repeated. "I'll get in touch with Becky."

"Who else knows?" he asked.

"You, Linc and me, that's it. I don't know if anyone else has noticed."

He just nodded. She knew that was how he wanted to keep it until they knew more.

She got up and stood next to him, sliding one arm around his waist, leaning against his side. In silence they watched the last rays of sunlight dissolving into the horizon that were turning the sky into a myriad of reddish and pink colors.

It was Sara who interrupted the rare peaceful moment. "You have to stop keeping these things from me, Michael. I'm here to help."

He bent down to plant a soft kiss on the top of her head. "I know," he whispered. "It takes some time getting used to."

She lifted her head away from his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "Getting used to what? Not shouldering the blame of the whole world on your own shoulders?"

He smiled a small smile. "Something like that."

Just then, it hit him like a rock slamming down on his skull. He drew in a sharp breath, cringing slightly. It took a minute for the pain to lessen enough for him to even hear her question.

"Another headache?"

"Yeah," he whispered hoarsely.

She touched his arm. "Let's go inside. You should get some rest."

xxXXxx

Michael was all too aware of the prying eyes on him as he and Sara entered the warehouse and he climbed into the boat on his own after exchanging a few words with her. He didn't like it, but she was right. If there was one thing they couldn't afford right now, it was him being incapacitated.

As Sara approached the group that was gathered near the whiteboard, Lincoln guided her to a quieter corner of the large room. "Did you talk to him?" he asked right out when they were out of earshot of the others.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"He agreed to let me draw some blood. I'll get that done tomorrow."

Lincoln let out a relieved sigh. "Good."

She just nodded and mentally reminded herself that she'd be spending the night in front of the computer, reading up on pheochromocytoma.

"Listen, I have some research to do." She turned towards the laptop that was sitting next to Roland's workstation, currently unoccupied.

His calling out her name made her turn around. "Sara?"

She looked at him.

"You know, I think you're the first voice of reason that he actually listens to."

She gave him a small smile. "Was that a compliment?"

He smiled back at her, one of the rare smiles she saw on his face these days. "Yeah."

"Thanks. I guess," she said with a chuckle.

His expression turned grave again. "Thank you, Sara."

She suddenly felt something dangerously controversial crackling in the air, and she wasn't sure if she should act on it or just let it go. Maybe it was time to chart their territory.

"Listen, Lincoln, I... I didn't mean to barge into your life and claim him for myself, if you got that impression."

He nervously rubbed his eyebrow. "No, I..."

"You're his brother. I can't compete with that."

He looked down at his hands, couldn't help fidgeting with them. "You know, it wasn't always like this. We didn't get along all that great before..." he didn't quite know how to put it into words, "all this."

"You're really lucky to have him, you know?"

"Yeah," he said in a low voice. "I know. I would be dead now if it wasn't for him." Something compelled him to meet Sara's eyes. "I'm not sure I even fully realized that until now."

She tried to find something in Lincoln's eyes that would tell her what the right thing to say was, but there was nothing there—nothing that would guide her, so she just mumbled, "Yeah, that's..."

"Sara," he interrupted her. "I know you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him; if it wasn't for _me_. I'm really sorry you got dragged into this."

"I'm not," she said in a determined voice. "If I wasn't here with you, I'd probably be God knows where, strung out on smack or wasted or... worse." In a low voice she added, "He gave me a reason to live for. And for that I'm grateful."

"So am I," he said, and his tone bore softness that matched hers.

Their eyes met again, and there was a mutual understanding in them that they had not shared before. An invisible barrier was starting to melt like an icicle in the mild sun of approaching spring.

She fidgeted with the ring on her index finger. It seemed that this conversation was over, but they couldn't quite figure out a way to part. "Listen, I..." she pointed at the computer in the corner, "gotta go do that research."

"Yeah," he just nodded and turned his attention back to where Sucre and Mahone were standing at the whiteboard.

As she walked over to the computer, she silently wished that everything would turn out okay. It had to, right? Whatever was wrong with Michael, they'd get him treatment and he would be fine. There had to be a cure.

She was determined that they would have that future together—the one that spoke of sailboats and sunsets over the ocean and postcards from the edge.

xxXXxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:  
**_Okay, you guys. Originally I thought this would be a one-shot, but I gotta hand it to everyone who reviewed the first part of the story and asked for more. It was your encouragement that made me go on, so thanks go out to each and every one who left a comment. I'm gonna have to see where they take the actual show to decide what I'm gonna do with my story, but for now this is where I personally imagine this is going to go._

xxXXxx

**Chapter 2**

The uninviting neon lamp above cast a cold, blue light onto the drab tiles of the women's bathroom. Its low hum was only just audible and nervously scraped at the edge of her perception. She suddenly felt ill at ease. She wasn't supposed to do this.

Sara tightened the latex glove around Michael's biceps she was using as a makeshift tourniquet, then took the cap off the needle that was fastened to an adapter for the vacutainer blood tube. It was a routine movement she hadn't performed for a long time, to gently rub the alcohol swab over the skin in the crook of his right arm. Seeing the scars on his skin close up like this, touching them, still made chills run down her spine. It didn't matter that she was wearing latex gloves.

She knew he could feel her discomfort when he softly but teasingly said, "It's not gonna hurt, right?"

She smiled a small smile. "Not if you hold still. I hope you have good veins."

"Shouldn't you know? This isn't the first time you've drawn my blood, remember?"

Involuntarily her mind wandered back to the Fox River infirmary, and somehow that didn't make it any better. There were few good memories she had of that place. She looked at his arm again. "Michael... the scars, I'm not sure if this'll—"

His voice was steady, confident. "Just do it."

She suddenly remembered that he had sat through most of his laser tattoo removal without sedatives, though it was still beyond her why he would subject himself to such torture. She breathed out a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding.

"Okay," she muttered. "This might sting a bit." The moment it was out of her mouth, she realized it was a stupid thing to say. But it was one of these automated little doctor phrases that she didn't even know were still readily available in her brain.

He didn't flinch when the needle broke his skin. She waited for the crimson liquid to pour into it, but it wasn't coming. She swore under her breath. "I'm sorry," she told him.

He gave her an encouraging smile. "It's okay."

She nervously tightened the latex glove around his arm a bit more. "Let me try again."

After the third unsuccessful try, she put the needle and tube away and got up. Agitatedly she ran her hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, Michael, I can't do this."

His gentle voice drew her eyes back to him. "You're the only one here who can do it."

She wanted to cry. Every time the needle penetrated his skin, it hurt her more than it hurt him.

"Sara. You can do this," he said again. He took the makeshift latex cuff off his arm and handed it to her. "Let's try the left arm."

She drew in a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

It was a relief to finally see his blood seep into the plastic tube. There had not been one indication that he had actually felt any pain, and she didn't know if she should be grateful for that or not. Somehow it bothered her that he was able to hide his pain so well—both physical and emotional. But who was she kidding?

When he was bending his arm, pressing a piece of gauze onto the spot of the needle puncture, she pointed to his other elbow. "You're gonna have a nice bruise there tomorrow, where I used you as a pin cushion."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "I'll live."

She smiled back. "You better."

It was all part of the game. The light banter, the smiles. They were both nervous, both on edge about what the blood results would be telling them. And both were trying to hide it as best as they could.

xxXXxx

Lincoln couldn't help looking at his watch. Again. It had only been five minutes since he'd last done it. Time was crawling at snail speed.

He shook his head, a futile attempt at getting his mind off Sara and the news she'd bring. Why did his brother appear like the perfect picture of calmness, and he was sitting here, going crazy? They said it would take two days to analyze the blood sample, and it had already been three days. Sara had left for Venice Beach over an hour ago. How long could it take for her to come back with Michael's blood test results?

Every time he heard a metallic clang, he automatically looked at the warehouse door, expecting it to open and Sara to enter with a smile on her face. Or a relieved expression, at least.

Lincoln's heart sank when the door finally did open and Sara walked through. He didn't care that everyone else was staring at him. They could all feel the tension in the air, but no one had yet dared ask the question. They all realized something wasn't quite right, Michael's headaches had gotten more frequent—and worse in intensity.

He concentrated on her face. Sara's expression wasn't happy or relieved. He could see she so desperately wanted to smile, but he already knew she wasn't bringing the news he wanted to hear. The brown manila envelope she was holding was the bearer of news—good or bad. It could be Michael's salvation or his death sentence.

Lincoln got up and walked towards her, meeting her halfway. Michael joined them with a few quick strides from across the room.

Bellick was the first one to pay attention to Sara's return and Lincoln's tense demeanor. He turned around to Sucre and touched his arm. "Hey," he said in an almost-whisper. "What's up with the happy family? Trouble in paradise?"

Sucre shrugged and in his Puerto Rican lilt replied, "I don't know."

"You think they're planning something?"

_Always the paranoid one_, Sucre thought. "Look, if it was important, I'm sure they'd tell us, right?"

"I'm telling ya, something's up. Have you noticed that Scofield isn't doing so good? Seems to have an awful lot of headaches lately, you think it's about that?"

Sucre was losing his temper. He had other things to worry about right now. "I don't know, man. Why don't you go and ask them if you wanna know so badly?"

Bellick gave him a disdainful look that seemed to spell, _Yeah, right_. There were an awful lot of things he wanted to say, like that they would all be doomed if they lost Scofield to this operation. As much as he hated to admit it, the man was crucial to their success and their subsequent freedom. But he bit his tongue and just snorted out a breath. Maybe Sucre was right. If something was wrong, they'd tell them. This would have to be need-to-know, wouldn't it?

xxXXxx

Inside the S.S. Minnow, Sara sat down on the bed, Michael and Lincoln on either side of her at a careful distance. She fingered the brown envelope she was holding and pulled out the lab results.

"It's..." she didn't quite know how to break the news.

Lincoln interrupted her. "Come on, Sara, say it. We know it's not good news. Is it the pheochromo—whatever-you-call-it thing?"

"I can't say for sure until we run more tests, but the bloodwork showed that Michael has elevated levels of epinephrine, norepinephrine and metanephrines. His urine also tested positive for noradrenaline and—"

"In English, please?" Lincoln interrupted her.

It was Michael whose soft voice cut in, "They're indications of pheochromocytoma."

Lincoln looked at Sara, who just nodded. He got up and ran a hand over his head from the back to the front, letting out a long breath, pacing in front of them. His eyes were wide and questioning, he looked from Michael to Sara. "And what now?"

She let the envelope and the papers sink into her lap. "He needs a CT so we can find out where the tumor is."

"So this is like cancer?"

"Yes and no. Pheochromocytoma can be malignant but is often benign."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that the tumor doesn't spread, it stays in one place," she tried to explain.

"So you have to take it out?"

"Not necessarily. I really can't say before we run a CT scan. I need to know where it is and how big it is. And... I'm not even a surgeon, so I can't really—" She stopped, then looked at Michael. "First thing we need to do is get your blood pressure down. There's drugs that can do that, alpha or beta blockers."

"And how do we get them?" Lincoln asked.

"That's a good question," Sara answered.

"Can't your friend prescribe them?"

She met his eyes. "She'll have to see Michael as a patient. She's already gone out on a limb, doing his bloodwork for me. I don't want to drag her into this, and... She's a pediatrician. You don't usually prescribe alpha or beta blockers to kids. People might start asking questions."

"Agent Self?" Lincoln suggested.

Sara just shrugged. They both looked at Michael, who had gone quiet, the way he did when he was thinking, trying to come up with a solution. Seeing the wheels turning in his head made them both uneasy. Why did Sara have the feeling he'd suggest breaking into a pharmacy?

They both waited with baited breath for his answer. The silence stretched on into awkwardness.

"Michael?" Sara finally inquired.

He met her gaze. The look in his eyes was unsettling because it didn't speak of the determination and confidence she had hoped to find. "Let me think about this for a while, okay?"

She nodded. He didn't have a clue either. And that scared her.

xxXXxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:  
**_First of all, meep meep meep, major spoilers for episode 4x08 to follow! Read at your own discretion._

_I said in my previous Author's Note that I would like to see where the actual writers take the show, and that's what I'm doing. So part of this story is AU, part is canon, and I'm trying to go along. Hope this all still makes sense._

xxXXxx

**Chapter 3**

"Man, are you okay?"

Sucre's gaze on Michael was worried. Bellick was right, there was something going on here. He was in pain, and trying to hide it.

Michael feigned ignorance. "What?"

"You don't look so good. You got a headache or something?"

It was one of those rare moments where they were alone, where the rest of the group wasn't within earshot. Sometimes Sucre thought he would go crazy. You'd think having spent years in prison would make you unsusceptible to having a lot of people around you all the time, but this was different. He had moments where he just wanted to scream for everyone to leave him alone, to just give him a moment's peace.

"I'm fine," Michael answered noncommittally.

"Come on, papi, you're not fine. Even Bellick's noticed. You, Linc and Sara've had a lot of private meetings lately. What's with the headaches and the secrecy?"

"Look," Michael said maybe a little too sharply, "It's nothing, okay?"

It was enough for Sucre to know he wasn't welcome to press any further. And enough for him to know something was definitely up, something a little more serious than a tendency for migraines. He backed off.

"Look, man, you gotta to tell us if something's going on we should know about. We've got enough secret mongering around here to make people more paranoid than they should be." He pointed a finger at Michael. "Think about that."

With that, Sucre walked away. The pain in Michael's head lessened enough for his eyes to follow his friend across the room. _Dammit_, he thought to himself. _Fernando was right. He would have to say something to them. And soon._

xxXXxx

"I have to tell them," Michael said to Sara and Lincoln.

They had assembled in the boat, as usual. Another private meeting, and he had been very much aware of Sucre's disapproving glance as the three of them climbed up the S.S. Minnow's ladder.

Both Lincoln and Sara looked at him. The fact that none of them reacted either positively or negatively compelled him to explain further. "Sucre's called me on it. Bellick's noticed. It's only a matter of time until they get suspicious to the point where we stop trusting each other."

"Trusting each other?" Lincoln snorted. "We're light years away from trusting each other. I don't trust any of these guys."

Michael cast his brother a punitive glance. "You trust them enough to work with them."

"Yeah, but not exactly by choice, is it?"

"That's beside the point, Linc. You know we need them if we wanna bring this to an end."

"Yeah," Lincoln snarled.

"What do you wanna tell them?" Sara asked.

Michael released a long breath. "The truth, I guess."

"But we haven't even figured out a plan yet. I can only fake so many prescriptions. And your blood pressure is still too high."

He hated to be reminded of all of that. He hated being at the mercy of the fragility of his own body. And they were running out of ideas fast. It was last night, lying in bed, waiting for sleep to come, that he had realized he needed to bring the others in on his dilemma.

"I know," he said, resigning to his fate. "The only way I can think of is getting Roland to help us with fake IDs and get the others involved in the rest of the plan."

He explained the operation to them. He wasn't sure if it was a sound plan, or a thorough one. The irony wasn't lost to him that when it came to stealing some of the most sensitive data in the country from some of the most dangerous men alive, he was a mastermind, but when it came to his own well-being and his own life, he was coming up empty.

xxXXxx

Something had gone terribly wrong. His plan had blown up right in their face, and now Roland was dead. Michael could still feel the life draining from him as he held his hand, as Roland's fingers went limp and Michael silently uttered a cry of rage inside that never made it to the surface.

It had all happened so fast, and then there was Sara extracting a bloody bullet from Sucre's waist right there on the warehouse table. And T-Bag and Wyatt. And Gretchen. Where had things gone wrong and blown them straight to hell?

_Please, not now. Not now!_ he thought as he felt the first signs. His vision would suddenly blur for a second. It didn't take long for the pain in his head to start, sometimes fierce, sometimes just a dull ache he could ignore. Without excusing himself, he went to the bathroom.

Grabbing the edge of the sink, he waited for his punishment. Another man died today. He knew Roland wasn't the first to fall victim to this mission. Michael hadn't pulled the trigger, hadn't been the one to condemn Roland to his fate. Still, he felt responsible. And another explosive headache would not be punishment enough for that, not even close.

He heard the slight plop of the carmine drop of blood in the sink even before he realized his nose was bleeding again. This time the headache was strangely absent. He bent over the sink and watched the drops of blood coalesce, wishing for the ability to turn back time.

xxXXxx

Everything was different now. The atmosphere in the warehouse had gone from cool to icy. The tautness was almost tangible. It was so quiet. There was no chatter, no background noise. There was no one here.

Sara had tended to Sucre's medical needs. Thank God they still had the morphine from the ambulance, Fernando was out of it on one of the cots. No one knew where Sara had gone, she wasn't in the warehouse when Michael got back from tying Wyatt up in an abandoned structure close by. Lincoln and Bellick were watching him. Mahone had not stayed, and no one asked where he was going. He was fighting his own demons, and no one dared get in way.

Michael stole a glance at his watch. 7:42 PM. Sara couldn't have... Had she gone to meet with Gretchen after all? He still remembered the look in her eyes when he had told her Gretchen was still alive. He remembered how she had flinched and turned away when he wanted to console her. It had hurt him then and it hurt him now—but he understood. They kept talking about not having secrets, about getting closer and sharing their feelings. But deep down, they were both still fending for themselves.

The sound of the warehouse door opening startled him. Their eyes met as she tossed her brown leather bag carelessly into a corner. In her mind a tumble of images and emotions wouldn't keep still, but she knew something was horribly wrong as soon as she could read his eyes.

"What happened?" she asked, forgetting her own problems for a moment.

"Roland's dead."

"What?" she breathed. "How?"

"Wyatt got to him." He lowered his eyes, then met her gaze again. "He was ratting us out, Sara."

Her hand went to her forehead. Now it suddenly made sense. "He... he apologized to me. I thought he was talking about Vegas, but he... he meant..." She looked around the warehouse. "Where is everybody?"

"We caught Wyatt. Linc and Bellick are watching him. Alex... he took off. Fernando's still passed out."

She just nodded. It was all too much to take in.

Michael looked at her, his expression serious. "Did you go and meet Gretchen?"

She knew she couldn't lie to him. "Yes," she answered in a low voice.

Only the low hum of a cargo ship in the distance penetrated the silence that ensued. He searched for the answers on her face. "Is she...?"

"Alive? Yes, Michael, I didn't kill her."

It felt like a slap in his face. Had he really expected her to kill Gretchen?

Sara continued, her voice cool and level. "We came to a certain kind of arrangement. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

He watched her, then slowly but silently nodded.

He had a feeling this would be the first night he'd be sleeping on his cot for weeks, the first night that Sara wouldn't make him feel welcome in the sparse sanctuary of her boat. There was not going to be a sharing of secrets here, not for a very long time.

xxXXxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:  
**_This is all I have to say tonight: I swear I wrote this before I saw any previews for 4x10! :o)_

_Spoilers for up to and including 4x09.  
_

xxXXxx

**Chapter 4**

He didn't realize how much he missed her until now—or how much he needed her. Michael had never been a man of many words, and there had been times when he thought conversation was overrated. As he watched Sara from the corner of his eyes, her standing in the make-shift kitchenette, he had the sudden urge to take a walk with her by the docks.

It wasn't the big words or big gestures that told him that she needed space. It was the little ones. The way she deliberately tried not to touch him or the way she kept the conversations down to business as much as possible. As much as his heart told him otherwise, he stayed away.

He had been sleeping on the cot since the night that Sara had met with Gretchen. He hadn't even tried to intrude into the confines of the boat. For a while he had considered the S.S. Minnow their sanctuary, but right now he knew he was more of an intruder than a welcome guest aboard the dry-docked vessel.

He watched as Sara walked over to the table, placing a steaming frying pan on a coaster in the middle of the tabletop.

Sucre's face lit up. "Hey! This is real fish. Like, hand-fried and everything."

She smiled at him. "Now, don't get any ideas, but I made this especially for you."

Bellick shot her a furtive glance, Mahone wisely kept his head down. Lincoln harrumphed. "Since when do you cook Happy Meals on request?" he asked wryly.

She shot him a mockingly punishing look. "Come on, give the guy a break, he's still my patient."

Sucre's hand went to his waist and he feigned a tortured expression. "Yeah, man, I'm injured."

Everyone at the table chuckled, and it was good to see smiling faces again. Their content was fragile and not entirely honest. It had only been a few days since they lost Roland. And today Mahone had disposed of Wyatt. He hadn't said a lot about it, just that "the bastard" was resting not so peacefully on the bottom of the ocean. No one had asked questions.

Sara was happy to see that everyone seemed to be enjoying the meal. She had never considered herself much of a cook. But after weeks of living on fast food and stale cereal, this was a feast to all of them.

She tried not to look at Michael, but her eyes inadvertently wandered to seek out his face, his piercing blue eyes. She wasn't sure if it was really relief she was feeling when at no time during the meal he focused them on her. He hadn't come to the boat since that night, and part of her thanked him for that. Yet another part secretly wished he had, even though she knew she would have turned him away.

She wasn't listening to the general chatter around her. While she ate bite after bite, her mind was elsewhere. When she looked up again to focus on the people around her, she realized that plates were empty and faces were content.

Her gaze turned to Michael, and she immediately realized something was off about him. His face was ashen and his expression taut. Lincoln, sitting next to Michael, must have noticed her widened eyes. He turned to his brother. "Hey, man, you all right?"

"Yeah," Michael replied in a strained voice. "I just..."

Michael rose from his chair and it took Lincoln a few seconds to realize what was happening. It was all he could do to catch Michael's sagging form to save him from hitting the floor face-first.

Before she knew it, Sara was kneeling next to Michael whom Lincoln had placed on the floor. She felt his pulse, it was weak and slow. After all her online research, she had a pretty good idea what was going on.

She looked up at Lincoln. "His blood pressure dropped too quickly, can you elevate his legs?"

Lincoln looked at her uncomprehendingly for a second before reacting. He took Michael's ankles and lifted them up. "Like this?"

She nodded. "A little higher."

From around the table Mahone came with a cardboard box and put it next to Lincoln. "Here, put his legs up on that."

It took mere seconds for Michael to stir and Sara placed her hand on his arm before he could speak. "Easy, Michael, you fainted."

He emitted a low groan and Sara inquired, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I just fainted," he half asked.

She couldn't help but smile at his retort. Always with the ready wit. He lifted his head and she gently squeezed his arm. "Lie still for a few more minutes."

Sara got up from her crouching position and met Lincoln's eyes. He gave her a curt nod that meant he had understood that he was supposed to keep his brother in a lying position.

A few moments later she came back with some equipment. As she put the blood pressure cuff on his arm, she became aware of the confused and prying eyes that all looked at her and her patient. This wasn't lost on Michael either. "Looks like I just became the big attraction of the zoo, huh?"

Sara looked around at everyone. "I think we've got this under control for now. I believe there's some dishes that are waiting to be done."

Bellick blushed and Sucre nodded. Mahone lingered for a moment, then joined the other two who started clearing the table. Lincoln was crouching next to Michael, opposite Sara. As she removed the stethoscope from her ears after slowly releasing the air from the cuff around Michael's arm, Lincoln met her eyes.

"What the hell just happened?"

"It's called post-prandial hypotension. It's when the blood pressure drops very quickly after having a meal. It can happen in patients with high blood pressure."

"So it's not serious?"

"No, but the pheochromocytoma is. Obviously the beta-blockers aren't helping."

"Could this happen again?"

Her face grew more serious. "If we don't get him treatment, yes."

Lincoln breathed out a long breath through pursed lips. Sara glanced at Michael, who logged groggy but whose complexion was slowly returning to a healthier shade of skin color. "Can you sit up?"

Lincoln helped him get into a sitting position. Sara met Michael's eyes. "We have to get you to a hospital."

Was this what defeat looked like? His brain was working only half as fast as usual. "How?"

"We have the hospital badges. We'll figure something out."

"Okay," he said weakly.

"Here," Sara took his arm and Lincoln the other to help him up. They guided him to the ratty old couch.

Lincoln looked at his brother, his eyes filled with concern and resolve. "We need to tell the others. Tonight."

xxXXxx

She stayed with him, measured his blood pressure again. It was climbing, already higher than it should be. Curious eyes would steal furtive glances at her and Michael from across the warehouse. Lincoln had gone and said a few words to Mahone, Bellick and Sucre, and she assumed that that had satisfied their immediate need for clarity.

Sitting on the edge of the seat cushion, she looked at Michael. His blue eyes were alert again, hovering between inquisitive and austere. The tension between the both of them was even more palpable now. Even though she wanted to say so many things to him, wanted for his soul to soak up all her demons and wrap them in tearproof cloth, she choked on the words that formed in her mind.

Their eyes met for a long moment and she opened her mouth to speak. "Michael..."

His eyes widened slightly, and she copped out. "How are you feeling?"

She could almost see him relax from the tense anticipation of her words. "Better," he said in that subdued tone of voice that could drive her up the wall.

She nodded. "Good."

Was this what it had come down to? Doctor/patient bedside chatter? She couldn't stand this. "Michael," she tried again with quiet urgency, but he shushed her by lifting his hand.

"I can't do this tonight." His voice was akin to a whisper. His hand sought out hers and he squeezed it slightly. "Please."

She looked at her hand in his, then at his face. "Okay," she nodded, repeating, "Okay."

xxXXxx

Everyone was in. They were all gathered around the table and Michael, Sara and Lincoln had explained everything. Michael's condition, the diagnostics, the treatment options, the half-assed plan to get Michael into the hospital undetected—or as undetected as necessary.

No one disagreed or questioned their plan. Everyone seemed as intent on their next course of action as Lincoln, Michael and Sara, and that filled Michael with a certain amount of pride. He looked around the table again and took in everyone's faces. He could read a myriad of emotions and expressions, but there was one he didn't see in any of them: Doubt. Together they could do this.

xxXXxx

Mahone was in the driver's seat of the ambulance. Sara was in the back with Michael, who was sitting in an upright position on the gurney. He was the only one not wearing a paramedics uniform. The others were already at the hospital.

When Sara felt the ambulance come to a halt, she looked at Michael. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose and held it for a second. His gaze on her was confident, focused.

She unbuckled her seat belt and got up. "Okay, let's do this."

xxXXxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** _  
Spoiler warning for up to and including episode 4x11!_

_I never thought it would be so much fun, writing a half-AU, half-canon story. Apologies for putting Sucre's words from 4x11 into Sara's mouth. _

_Please cut me some slack with the medical stuff. There might be inconsistencies. I'm no doctor, I'm making this up just as much as the show's writers. But let me assure you that I'm trying to be as authentic as I can._

xxXXxx

**Chapter 5**

It had been so much easier than Sara thought. Michael was being taken upstairs to have a CT. Just as planned, Lincoln was there with him, dressed in dark blue nurse's scrubs that had his fake hospital ID clipped to the breast pocket.

Reluctantly, she went back to the ambulance outside. There was nothing more she could do. Paramedics weren't supposed to see patients anywhere other than to the emergency room. Mahone was already in the ambulance's driver's seat. Sara climbed into the passenger seat and Mahone started the engine. They would be waiting a few blocks away for the phone call that would determine their next course of action.

xxXXxx

Lincoln could see that Michael was uncomfortable in the wheelchair.

"Sir, it's hospital policy," Lincoln had said when Michael protested that he could very well walk by himself. Michael had given him a pointed look, but he knew that Lincoln wanted to make sure people within earshot didn't suspect anything.

Michael had relented and reluctantly sat down in the wheelchair for Lincoln to push him into the nearest elevator.

A beep indicated that they had arrived on the 4th floor and the elevator doors opened. The CT exam room was just a few doors down the hall and Lincoln wheeled him inside. A young lab tech was waiting for them, a bored expression on his face. He didn't even glance at Lincoln's ID. It was amazing how trustworthy people were if you only pretended you belonged and knew what you were doing.

xxXXxx

In the ambulance, the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Too slowly. Sara looked at her watch again, silently scolding herself for being so agitated—and showing it. Mahone glanced over at her, opening his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but then thought the better of it. The silence stretched on.

Was Michael already in CT? Would they have run into trouble? Would someone recognize their faces? Mahone's words pulled Sara from her tension-filled reverie. He gestured at the coffee shop across the street. "You want some coffee?"

She looked at him, her eyes a little wider than usual. "Uh... yeah. A latte would be nice."

As she watched Mahone get out of the car and walk lithely across the street, she suddenly wondered why she was trusting this man. Just a few months ago, he had been one of their most dangerous enemies, had hunted Michael and Lincoln for weeks, would probably have ruthlessly killed them if it had suited his purpose.

A lot had happened since then. Beneath the merciless exterior, Alexander Mahone was only human, and when the Company had killed his son, his shell had cracked. He was, much like all of them, a changed man.

But the beast inside was not completely buried. Having seen him lunge at Wyatt with eyes that were blinded by fury, Sara knew he was every inch as dangerous now as he had been as an FBI agent. Silently she prayed that they would not have to see Mahone's feral side ever again.

Seeing him exit the coffee shop with a tray holding two cardboard cups and walking towards her, she wondered where his loyalties lay. Now that he had exacted his revenge and Wyatt was floating at the bottom of the Los Angeles dockside waters, what did Alex Mahone have to fight for?

xxXXxx

Michael had never been claustrophobic, and the constriction of the CT tube didn't bother him. His mind was filled with other troublesome thoughts. What would happen when they received his diagnosis? Would he need surgery—and if so, when? How long would that put him out of action?

They were so close, they needed to get that sixth card. He couldn't fail them now. He needed to have his wits about him, and more importantly, he needed to be up and running.

He heard the mechanical voice of the lab tech through the speakers. "Mr. Freeling, we're going to start the scanning process now. Please try to lie still. This won't take long." It took a second or two for him to register that the lab tech was talking to him.

Michael focused on his breathing as he heard the low hum of the CT scanner going into action. To distract himself, he thought of Sara. Her alert, hazel eyes, her auburn hair, her sweet smile. And her lips—soft and warm.

He tried to recall the last time they'd kissed. He remembered a fleeting peck on the lips from last night, but their last kiss he would describe as sensual had been days ago. They hadn't had that kind of intimate physical contact since the night Sara had gone to meet with Gretchen, he recalled.

Granted, they had so much going on, one big explosive event had followed the next. But it was not only that. Before, they had always found a few minutes here and there to themselves, be it only in the small hours of the night when everyone else was sleeping.

Something or someone was putting an invisible barrier between them. It would be so easy to blame it all on Gretchen, but he knew there was much more to it.

The hum of the CT scanner whirring above his body reminded him that all of this was part of it too. There was so much uncertainty in both their lives. And no matter how many promises he made to Sara of one day being free, of one day sailing away with her, he knew they rang hollow at the prospect of him going into surgery or their family and friends risking their lives to bring down The Company.

xxXXxx

"Sara?"

Alex Mahone's raspy voice pulled her from her reverie. She turned her head sideways to look at him.

His gaze lingered on her face before he continued. "He's going to be all right."

She gazed down at the half empty cardboard cup in her hand, feeling the residual warmth of the liquid inside on her fingertips. "How do you know?"

"I don't." At least he was being honest. "But he's a fighter. He's strong. He knows what he's capable of."

Her anger suddenly flared, and she didn't know where it was coming from. "Does he?" she asked forcefully. "Does he really know what he's doing? I mean, I get it, he has an obligation—to his brother, to his father, to you. But, dammit, this is his life he's gambling with!"

In a subdued voice, Mahone said, "I think he knows that."

She didn't know what to reply. He was right, of course. Michael knew perfectly well that his life was on the line. Wasn't it incredibly selfish of her to expect him to protect himself rather than risk his life for their cause?

"So what if he needs surgery?" she asked. "He's not going to go willingly. In his mind, this operation doesn't work without him. Tell me, Alex, is he really that indispensable?"

"In a way, we're all dispensable. I think the question you want to ask is, can this operation succeed without him?" He looked out the windshield at the alley stretching out in front of them. "I would be lying if I said no, but you know as well as I do that the chances are much higher with him there."

She just nodded. He was right—again. And even though she had known it all along, she still couldn't help hoping that Michael would choose to be egoistic instead of being a martyr.

xxXXxx

It had been so much easier than Michael thought. After being released from confines of the scanner, Lincoln had taken him to a waiting area where the physician would come talk to him with the results of his CT.

He suddenly wished Sara was here, she would know all the specifics, all the medical intricacies, would be able to grasp what was going on. He had a basic understanding of pheochromocytoma and its symptoms and complications, but not much beyond that.

Michael sat down in one of the plastic chairs. He looked up at his brother. "Sara should be here."

"She's waiting in the ambulance with Mahone."

"I know, but she's the one who'll understand the details. She's the one who can ask all the right questions."

"You want me to call her?"

Michael lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he breathed out.

"We should stick to the original plan. If she comes in here, dressed like a paramedic, people might get suspicious."

Michael looked up at his brother. "People are gonna get suspicious if you keep chatting with me. You're supposed to be a nurse, remember?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed. Of all the occupations he had imagined for himself, nurse had never even made his list. He gave Michael a concerned look that Michael knew how to read.

He told Lincoln, "I'll be fine. We'll know what's going on soon."

Lincoln just nodded.

xxXXxx

An hour later, Sara received the call they had been waiting for. A brief flutter stabbed her stomach when she read Michael's name on her cell phone display. "Michael," she greeted him.

She listened to him and asked a few questions. Mahone looked at her a few times, trying to gather from the conversation what he could. Sara tried to ignore his questioning stare.

When she ended the call, his eyes sought out hers, the unasked question clearly readable in them.

She nodded slightly. "It's what we thought. Pheochromocytoma. He'll need surgery, and soon."

"When?"

"We're not sure. Possibly still this week."

Mahone breathed out a long breath. Not the answer he had hoped to hear.

"Let's go," Sara urged him quietly. "Linc and Michael are waiting for us to pick them up."

xxXXxx

"I can't do this," Michael said. "I can't have the surgery now. We're so close."

"You _have_ to do this," Sara said firmly. Lincoln looked on, his mouth pressed together.

The three of them were alone in the cramped cabin of what was now known as Sara's boat. It was the only place in the warehouse where they could be reasonably sure no one would walk in on them.

Sara paced agitatedly to and fro in front of Michael, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. Lincoln occupied the only chair in the room, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Is there an alternative?" Lincoln asked, his voice calm.

"No," Sara responded while Michael said, "Yes," simultaneously.

Sara stopped pacing and looked Michael straight in the eye. "So what's your alternative?"

"I keep going until we have Scylla. Once that is done, I'll have the operation."

Sara snorted a breath out through her nose. Why was he being so ridiculously stubborn?

"Michael, you don't understand. Your blood pressure is dangerously high. Your migraines and nosebleeds are only going to get worse. The list of complications is quite extensive, you could have a heart attack or a stroke." She paused, then continued, "If you push on like this without treatment, you could die."

His voice was almost pleading. "Then get me treatment. There has to be a way to keep this in check for one more week. One week, that's all I need."

She shook her head, her face grim as she started pacing again.

Lincoln's question stopped her. "Sara?" His gaze on her said it all, he wanted to know if it was a real alternative.

She looked him in the eyes for a few long seconds. "No. He needs the surgery, the sooner, the better. Anything else is just too dangerous." It sounded like her final word.

A heavy silence fell, and the only audible sound was the intermittent dripping of the kitchenette's sink behind Sara that no one had bothered to fix.

xxXXxx


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:  
**_Spoiler warning for up to and including episode 4x11!_

_As you read this chapter, you will realize that it consists mainly of scenes and dialogue from episodes 4x10 and 4x11, so a big thanks goes out to the writers of the show. You're making the MiSa 'shippers very happy this season. Of course no copyright infringement is intended, I'm merely playing in your sandbox, Mr. Scheuring._

_Apologies for messing around a little with the timeline, I know I'm warping the PB universe in ways that it probably shouldn't be warped._

_For the Sucre fans: He's in this chapter, but not a lot. I promise I'm gonna write him some nice dialogue in one of the next chapters. :o)_

_A shout goes out to everyone who has reviewed and keeps reviewing my story here at fanfiction (dot) net and over at prisonbreakfic (dot) net. Thanks so much, guys. You keep me going._

xxXXxx

**Chapter 6**

The realization hadn't really hit until the morning. None of them had gotten much sleep, and the silence in the warehouse was deafening.

Everyone was seated at the table, only Don Self was standing.

"So where's Brad's body now?" Sucre asked. Like it was yesterday, he could hear Bellick asking him to notify his mother if anything ever happened to him.

None of them wanted to believe it. Bellick had sacrificed his own life for their cause. They knew getting to the room where Scylla was stored was an almost impossible feat. They just hadn't expected to lose another good man. He wasn't their first bereavement, but somehow this had hit harder and deeper.

Self spoke about Brad Bellick's body like it was a totaled car. "We have it on its way to the morgue, and it's at the cooler at Homeland Security where nobody can find it."

Lincoln raised his head, shaking it. "That ain't part of the deal."

Mahone spoke up. "You said that if anything happened to us, that we'd be returned to next of kin."

"No, that's not exactly what I said."

"No, that _is_ exactly what you said."

Self's expression was resolute. "No, it isn't exactly what I said, okay? And he needs to stay a John Doe until I say otherwise, okay? I'm dealing with enough stuff already, and I have my ass—"

Sucre suddenly jumped from this chair, lunging at Self. He started shouting Spanish expletives at him, pounding him with his fists. Mahone was out of his chair immediately, separating the two men. Everyone else looked on—stunned, frozen.

Sucre could hardly speak in his rage. He pointed at Self. "He's... he's got a mother, you know."

Mahone was still standing in between Self and Sucre. Addressing Self, he said, "If you want Scylla, and I assume you still do, Brad Bellick's body goes home to his mother."

Self stared at Mahone, his brow creased in discontent. Who were these cons to suddenly be determining the rules of this dangerous game? "Alright, alright," he relented, realizing he had to give in to this one. "I'm gonna take care of the body."

As Mahone guided Sucre back to his seat, Self added, "But you guys need to get out of mourning. We need to get back to work, we need to pack Brad's stuff up and," he pronounced the next few words slowly and deliberately, "we need to get back to work. And Fernando, my friend, let me tell you something. If you ever put your hands on me again, I promise you, there's gonna be two bodies in the fridge."

Mahone's hand on Sucre's clavicle stopped him from doing anything stupid. Looking at everyone at the table now, Self went on, "But I need results."

Michael got up, "Yeah, well, I need to see those missing pages. So what's it gonna be?"

xxXXxx

It was getting harder with every passing day. Sara could see it every time she looked at Michael. It seemed like he was having a constant headache now, even though he would not admit it. They had to do something.

She saw him wiping at his nose, his hand coming away with a crimson stain on it. She watched him get up and enter the bathroom. She followed him there.

He was standing at the sink, tilting his head back.

"Lean forward," she softly instructed him. "With your head back, you'll only swallow the blood."

He did as he was told, the droplets of red forming a stark contrast in the pale white of the porcelain sink. "Pinch your nostrils together and keep them that way for a few minutes."

She edged closer, leaning her backside against the edge of the counter next to the sink. In a low voice, she said, "Michael, you can't go on like this. Please let me take you back to the hospital. I'll pretend to be your wife, I can talk to the doctors. Let me help you," she pleaded.

His eyes met hers, but she had trouble reading his frame of mind. She tried again, "You know as well as I do that you're no good to anyone like this. The additional bloodwork should be back now, and the surgeon will want to talk to you about the operation. We need to go back there today."

With his fingers still pressing his nose together, his voice was strangely nasal. "It's another risk I don't want to take. It's only been a few months since our faces were all over the TV and the papers. Sara, what if someone recognizes me? Are you willing to take that risk?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

xxXXxx

The surgical ward's waiting area was next to the nurse's station, and the blue and beige padded chairs did a poor job of trying to give it a more comfortable and calming air. A middle-aged doctor called Jeffrey Malden had seen Michael twenty minutes ago for more tests. He and Sara were waiting for him to come back with something more definitive.

The sudden commotion made Michael look up. The first thing he noticed were two policemen, dressed in a black cop's uniform. He and Sara got up, their minds single-tracked on finding the nearest exit. The knee-jerk reaction to any law enforcement personnel within eyeshot had been engrained in their minds so deeply that it didn't even feel alien to them anymore.

The hallway was short with emergency exit doors at the end. Through the windows in the doors, Michael could spot the two security guards standing just outside the door.

"Sara," he warned her.

From behind them came Dr. Malden's voice. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Michael tried not to act nervous. "You have our number," he told the doctor, passing him on the way down the corridor, the way they came.

Dr. Malden talked at Sara while she walked away. "And who are you again?"

"The first to wait at home and monitor him."

They stopped at the corner where the hallway opened to the nurse's station. Dr. Malden tried addressing Michael again. "You're leaving AMA in a potentially fragile condition."

The doctor gave Michael an almost condescending look and said sternly, "Look, I'm not stupid. I know who you are. And I'm not gonna turn you in, my concern is for what's going on with your health."

As Michael nervously glanced at the cops talking to a nurse near the nurse's station, Dr. Malden continued, "They're not here for you. And I'm telling you, in your condition—"

"Thank you, Doctor," Michael interrupted him. "I appreciate your help."

"Please do call us," Sara added as she walked away, following Michael.

xxXXxx

"That's great. Okay. Thank you so much, Dr. Malden," Sara finished her conversation with the surgeon before she hung up her cell phone.

She walked up to Michael and Lincoln, sitting at the warehouse table. Touching Michael's shoulders in what she hoped would be a comforting gesture, she told him, "They can do the surgery tomorrow at 3."

"No," Michael said almost immediately.

"You're going," Lincoln told him determinedly.

"We need to finish what we started," Michael protested.

Lincoln bent down so that he was close to his ear. "We can do this."

Michael's temper flared. He got up, his voice raised. "I need more time!"

The sudden movement aggravated his already nagging headache and his palms when to his temples in a vain attempt to keep the stabbing pain in check.

Sara walked up to him. "Michael, Dr. Malden can see you tomorrow. He's given us his word he won't alert the authorities. If you put this off and you, you... you collapse, you're gonna be treated by another doctor. Do you wanna roll the dice that they're not gonna call the cops?"

Facing the whiteboard with his back to Sara and Lincoln, Michael sucked in a sharp breath, his voice calmer now. "There's still so much to do."

Sara turned her head to look at Lincoln. His face was stony, but he flicked Sara a quick sideways glance. Michael turned around, defeated. He knew he didn't have the strength to go against both his girlfriend and his brother. "Alright," he said in a husky whisper.

Lincoln looked at him in approval before he turned away. Sara met his azure eyes. "Tomorrow, 3 o'clock?"

Michael nodded.

xxXXxx

Sara saw Lincoln standing by the warehouse door, casually leaning against it. The bleak dockside scenery that spoke of twisted pipes and hooting tankships wasn't what had drawn him here.

She ambled over to lean her bank against the other side of the open sliding gate. "He's gonna be okay," she told him. "I'm scared too, but the hospital's the best place for him right now."

Lincoln knew this wasn't what Sara would want to hear, but she deserved to know. Lincoln knew his brother far too well. "He won't go without a plan to complete the job."

Sara was taken aback. He had said he would go. "Well, Alex and Fernando should be back soon with the video, right?"

"Should be, yeah."

"So then all we need is the sixth card."

"Gretchen's working on that," Lincoln said matter-of-factly.

"You really think we can trust her?"

Lincoln looked down to the floor where the dust had been accumulating from an eddy that the wind created. "With the card? Absolutely. Anything else? Nope."

xxXXxx

Alex could see that Michael was in pain, that he was rubbing his head a lot more often than he should. Everyone could see it now, but most everyone else tried to ignore it. Pity or a guilty conscience was not what Michael needed right now.

Alex almost ignored it too, but then he remembered something. He turned around and sat down at the table that was empty except for Michael. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," Michael greeted him back, giving him an exhausted look. He looked more tired than Alex had ever seen him before.

Alex rubbed his mouth with his palm, releasing a sigh. "I'm not gonna ask you how you're feeling."

"Good," Michael mumbled, defeated.

"About four years after I joined the Bureau, my first Special Agent in charge, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. But for him, the hardest part wasn't the treatment, the hardest part was leaving the office. We had this big RICO case that was about to go to trial. And we're talking thousands of man-hours and five years of research and... and the guy was gonna be in chemo. And he was scared."

Michael stopped rubbing his head and looked at Alex, who continued, "He was scared that we were gonna lose the case, and that a lot of bad men were gonna walk."

The look on Michael's face was almost amused. "Let me guess, he had a rag-tag band of criminals ready to pick up the slack."

Alex smiled a small smile. "Yeah, something like that."

The pain was coming back in waves now and Michael closed his eyes to prepare for another onslaught.

Alex got up from his chair, but before leaving Michael to himself, he bent down slightly. In a low voice, he added, "We're not gonna let you down, Michael."

Michael heard the footsteps of Alex walking away behind him. "What happened to your boss?"

Alex turned around. "Oh, he was there to see us win."

xxXXxx

They had all been on edge this morning. No one had said much during breakfast. They knew they were on a deadline. The clock was approaching 3 PM much too fast and there was still so much to plan, so much to do.

Michael didn't think he could stand one more minute in the warehouse. Everyone was tense and worried, and the thick silence was suffocating him. He had been glad when Don Self had arrived and taken him outside to hand him an unmarked manila envelope.

The contents were puzzling him, but he also saw things much more clearly now. He suddenly understood some of the decisions his father had made, the sacrifices he'd had to live with.

Michael could hear the sound of her heels approaching from behind before he could feel Sara's hands encircling his waist. Her lips touched his shoulder, and just for a moment, he relaxed. He felt at home. He wanted to freeze this moment and keep living in it, but the envelope in his hand reminded him that he was clinging to a feeble hope that could be shattered in a moment's time.

His hand touched her arm and he let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging.

She lightly kissed him through the shirt's fabric. "It's time to go."

He closed his eyes. He wasn't ready—for any of this. Letting out another long breath, he lifted up the envelope with the contents exposed on top so that Sara could see what he was holding. She took it from him.

As he turned around to face her, he murmured, "'All that avails is flight.' Maybe my father was on to something." He hesitated. "If they all die because we tried to take down The Company, and I survive because I called in sick, how am I gonna live with myself?"

There was no answer to this question, and she knew it as she met his eyes that had gone dark with regret and desperation and stony resolve. She knew she had lost her fight. He was going to help take down The Company, he would not bow down for a simple obstacle like abdominal surgery.

xxXXxx

Sitting in the car's back seat with Michael, Sara unwrapped the syringe from its plastic cover. "If I still had a medical license, I'd lose it over this." Silently, she added, 'And I hope I'm not gonna regret this for the rest of my life.'

Michael rolled up his shirt sleeve, exposing the crook of his arm.

Filling the syringe with a clear liquid from a glass vial, she said, "This is usually given to patients with severe hypertension. It'll keep your blood pressure down, but there can also be side effects. You might feel sick or a burning sensation. But, Michael, any added mental or physical stress—"

"I get it," he said with a sigh.

"I mean it," she said in a serious tone. "I don't want you to move unless you absolutely have to. And as soon as this is over, I'm taking you to the hospital."

She gave him a quick and not entirely sincere smile before exiting the car. He knew it was meant as encouragement, but he couldn't deny the bittersweet aftertaste it left in his mouth.

Sucre had been in the passenger seat the whole time. His head was bowed and he was mouthing a prayer, his hands folded in front of his chest.

Michael leaned forward, lightly touching Sucre's shoulder. "Hey, you all right?"

Sucre just nodded.

"This is gonna go exactly as planned. I promise," Michael tried to assure him.

Sucre's voice was just above a whisper, "I'm not praying for me."

xxXXxx

Los Angeles was a lot different from Chicago in many ways, but the gleaming skyscrapers looked just the same. Sara found her way to the wooden bench in front of the Company's headquarters and sat down.

The manila envelope was safely tucked away in her purse, next to her cell phone and the 38 semi-automatic. Now all she had to do was wait.

xxXXxx


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:  
**_Spoiler warning for up to and including episode 4x16! (Though technically I'm not using much of anything from the last few episodes.)_

_First of all, Merry Christmas! Second of all, apologies for taking so long to update. I'm not a very frequent writer, so please don't expect weekly updates from me. Thirdly, I really hate what they're doing to the plot of Prison Break lately, and it's slowly killing my zest to write more fanfic. I'm not sure how much more of this Scylla/Company mess I can take before I lose interest in the show altogether. It's much more fun right now to play in my own slightly AUish universe here in this story than watching the actual episodes. So maybe that's what I should keep doing. On a less fanficcy note, anyone who's interested in my PB rants can check out my LiveJournal at tj_teejay [dot] livejournal [dot] com._

_MsGenevieve, I hope you forgive me for borrowing one of Sara's lines from your story "Invisible" (which I highly recommend)._

xxXXxx

**Chapter 7**

He was putting on a brave face, but Sara knew that was just the cloak that Michael chose to shroud himself in. The cracks in his façade were widening, and that was enough for her to understand that it was bad.

Her mind suddenly flashed back to that moment in the hotel room, weeks ago, when he had ripped open his arm on a piece of metal and she had dabbed the open wound with peroxide. He hadn't even flinched once. "I have a high tolerance for pain," he had told her.

With that in mind, she couldn't imagine what he was going through now, but this she knew: It was surpassing his tolerance threshold. His once so vibrant eyes now only radiated exhaustion and physical ache. Whenever she looked into them, he consigned a piece of his pain to her. What she wanted more than anything was to absorb some of it, but she knew it didn't work that way.

What was even worse was his stubbornness. Or maybe it wasn't just that. It was that blend of stubbornness, altruism and martyrdom that he had made his own. Just a few hours ago, she had articulated something that had gnawed her the rim of her consciousness for a long time. Long before she had consciously realized it, he reminded her more and more of her father, the way he was putting everyone else's problems before his own. It was getting harder and harder every day, struggling to reconcile the disaccord of her love for him and her resentment for his unwaning selfless loyalty.

She knew that openly acquiescing to her father's and Michael's similarity had hurt him. She knew it wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew that he needed support more than accusations from her right now. It was just getting so hard to keep up appearances, to rein in her doubts and fears and the urge to shake some sense into him every time he refused to have the surgery.

From across the room, she watched him vigilantly, the way his shoulders were slumped forward, his head in his hands. It seemed to be his predominant stance these days. She wondered if he even remembered what it felt like not to be in constant pain.

She slowly ambled over to the sofa and gingerly sat down next to him. She felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jeans when she touched his thigh. "Michael," she said just above a whisper. "It's late. You should get some rest."

It seemed like it was an effort for him to lift his head when he looked at her. "You know we can't afford a good night's sleep right now."

She didn't care that she sounded like a broken record. "You can't keep going like this. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Michael, you _look_ more alive than you are."

"I can't have the surgery right now," he weakly insisted.

"I know," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean that you can't rest. When is the last time you slept more than 4 hours at a time?"

He tiredly rubbed his hand across his forehead, and that was enough of an answer.

She looked over to the table where Lincoln and Sucre were engaged in conversation, her silent cry for help. As if Lincoln could read her mind, he turned his head in her direction and met her gaze. It didn't give her any consolation.

She turned her attention back to Michael. "Look, there's nothing we can do tonight, not until the morning." She nudged her head in the direction of the boat. "A bed is really the best place for you right now." She took his hand. "Please come with me."

His gaze on her was weary. "Sara..."

She shook her head. That wasn't what she had in mind. "I can sleep on one of the cots."

"No," he whispered. "I'd rather have you with me."

xxXXxx

He opened his eyes when she sat down on the bed next to his stretched out form. She wondered if he had even noticed that she had left the boat a few minutes ago.

She took the syringe and pierced its needle through the rubber cap of the now upside down glass vial she had gotten from the med kit. The clear liquid filled the syringe as she pulled the plunger downwards. She heard Michael's tired voice.

"What are you doing?"

"You're in pain. This'll make it go away, at least for a while."

He sighed. "Sara, I don't want it."

"I know. I'm gonna give it to you anyway."

He sat up, maybe a little too suddenly because he sucked in a sharp breath. "I don't want it!" he hissed at her.

"You don't win extra points for being a fucking martyr, Michael."

What followed was a pronounced silence. She became too conscious of her own breathing. She didn't dare look into his eyes for a few, agonizing seconds, and when she finally did, there was surprise as well as anger staring right at her.

"What do you want from me?" he asked sharply.

His anger only fueled her desire to quell his anguish. "I want you to let me take your pain away, just this once. Because it's the only way I know how to help you."

He fell silent, his brow furrowing. His gaze went to the syringe in her hand. "What is it?"

"Morphine."

It took a moment to sink in. "I... I didn't know you were keeping any of it around."

They were both too aware of her history with intravenously injected drugs. "Michael," she sighed, "I'm not keeping it around for me."

"You've never...?"

"Used any of it?" she completed the question.

"No. Thought about using it?"

Her mouth formed a thin line. "To be honest, I didn't even remember it was in the med kit until now. It's not like I've had a lot of time to dwell on our medical supplies lately, is it?"

His expression softened. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She nodded slowly. "Will you let me give it to you?"

He didn't say anything but held out his arm to her. She had long gotten used to seeing it covered in scars that had healed now and didn't quite look like angry, red snakes on his laser maimed skin anymore.

Just as she expected, he didn't even flinch when the needle penetrated his skin and she injected the opiate analgesic into his veins. She prayed it would act quickly and relieve him of his burden—if only temporarily.

xxXXxx

When she woke at just around 5:30 AM, Michael was soundly lost in slumber next to her. A brief flutter of relief washed through her. Finally he was getting a good night's sleep. Quietly she got her things and retreated to what they called the women's bathroom. Ironic, because she was and always had been the only woman in this place.

In the kitchen she poured some milk over the last remnants of cereal. She didn't even notice anymore that it tasted slightly stale.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw something moving in the shadows, and she recognized Sucre's well-toned shape walking in her direction.

"Buenos días," he greeted her. The vigor and naivety she liked so much about him was absent from his voice. They were all tired.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

"Look who's talking."

She studied the oatmeal floating around in her bowl, then cracked an ironic smile. "I never used to have problems with insomnia. Funny how things can change."

"You know, I wouldn't have this problem if Lincoln didn't snore like a lumberjack cutting down the Puerto Rican rain forest."

Her smiled widened. She had never pegged Lincoln for a snorer, but somehow it fit. She looked up at Sucre. "I think I saw a pair of earplugs in the med kit."

The sputter from the coffee maker captured Sucre's attention. It was one of the few amenities that the warehouse's kitchen had to offer. A bright smile lit up his face. "You made coffee?"

She nodded, chewing on another spoon of cereal and watched him pour himself a mug. No milk, one sugar.

He stood next to her, both leaning against the counter. "Hey, uh," he broke the silence, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Michael, is he..."

She looked at him, not sure what his next words were going to be.

"... is he gonna be okay?"

She released a breath. "I don't know. He needs surgery."

"So... if he doesn't get it, he's..."

She stopped chewing and looked at Sucre. "Are you asking me if he's gonna die?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," he quietly admitted.

"I don't know," she only repeated. "Things are going to get a lot worse if he doesn't get treatment." Her voice lowered a notch. "I'm hoping it won't come to that."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Sara smiled a sad smile. It was somehow sweet of Fernando to ask. "Short of handcuffing him and dragging him into an operating room, no."

The corners of his mouth went up, but didn't quite form a full smile. "But, you know, I could try to talk to him or something."

It's not as if she hadn't tried. Again and again. It didn't do any good then, and she very much doubted it would do any good now, coming from Sucre. Still, anything that might convince Michael to seek treatment could only be a good thing.

She shrugged. "You can try."

They were both quiet for a long moment, Sara's spoon clanging against the ceramic cereal bowl, scraping at the last remnants of milk and muesli at the bottom. Sucre's voice broke the silence.

"Did you know that it's Lincoln's birthday today?"

She looked at him, surprised. "No."

The fact that she hadn't known wasn't particularly shocking, the things that were on their minds right now seemed so much bigger than what was going on in their private lives. Not that any of them had much of a private life right now.

Filled with newfound resolve, she put the cereal bowl in the sink and turned to go. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Okay."

His gaze followed her and suddenly he wondered in how many ways Michael would kill him if he knew he had let Sara go out on her own. He put his half-full mug on the counter and jogged across the room, catching up with her. "Wait up. I'm coming with you."

xxXXxx


End file.
